Of conflict and charms
by BloomAndGrowl
Summary: He came to her at nightfall after the last battle, bruised in all possible ways and he let her take his hand as she drew him out of the tall shadows of Stark's living room; the frost fading from his hands, along with the crimson in his eyes. On hiatus
1. Chapter 1

**A/N ****My first story published on FanFiction. This is the first of the 200-word project I challenged myself with. All the snippets are comprised of 200 words **exactly. **Feel free to count. Also as this is my first story I will now shamelessly beg for reviews. PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE REVIEW. And constructive criticism is always welcome. It's the only way we learn.**

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><p><strong>AN I added another 4 drabbles, changed the order a bit and also fixed some of the mistakes that I saw. Do you know how hard it is to stick to a certain amount of words? In some cases my muse went haywire and in others I struggled to reach even 50 words. Please excuse my total disregard for tenses in some parts, it had to be done. Here comes another shameless begging: PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE REVIEW. And thanks to those who already did. ;-)  
><strong>

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><p><strong>Of Conflict And Charms<strong>

Bare-chested with his eyes closed, he was standing in the middle of the circle, muttering incantations so fast that the light at his fingertips seem to pulse with a heartbeat of their own. It was a rare chance indeed to see the second prince so uninhibited for he rarely came to spar with them anymore.

Suddenly his eyes opened, vivid-green, and in an instant he was surrounded by six frost-giants of enormous size.

Sif was rooted to her spot and still debating her choices, join in the fray or go get the thunder god, when the first two giants fell, knives embedded in their hearts. He moved with grace which Thor and Volstagg always lacked. He aimed with speed and accuracy which not even Hogan or Fandral could achieve. She had learned long ago that even without his magic, Loki was deadly.

As she watched the third giant fall she came to the realization. Real frost-giants would not move so fast or go down so easily. They were projections, frightfully good ones, but projections none the less.

Stealthily, Sif slid higher up her perch.

The giant oak has been her companion and secret-keeper for many years while she watched him.

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After the scheming, quarrelling and thunderstorms it would always be _her_ and Loki. She had to convince a sceptical Thor each time that they simple made the better pairing for infiltration. It was true that the solemn Hogan was the better assassin between the two of them, but Loki would always surpass them all with or without his incantations. Long before the All-father noticed his second son's aptitude for sorcery, Loki had already mastered all the tricks that required sleight of hand and lightness of foot. He not only moved in the shadows, he became them.

All of the warriors worked well with the prince but the partnership between her and Loki was simple put, the better one. They thought the same; moving together, breathing together.

He knew all her lunges and attacks; she knew all his spells and enchantments. When he needed to concentrate she covered him and when she stumbled he caught her.

Today Thor again proposed Hogan for the mission instead of her and like always Loki chuckled, Hogan remained silent and she argued profusely. Sif knew Thor would give in.

He always did after a whispered word from his brother and a stern look from her.

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Loki knew Thor would eventually relinquish his silence. He would speak out, but whether in shock, anger, happiness or plain bewilderment was something even Loki could not assess. One month after the incident, Thor yielded.

At nightfall when Loki was returning to his courters, he found his brother waiting for him. Thor kept his eyes cast to the floor, even after he had took a shuddering breath and began to speak.

"If ever I was to call someone sister, it would be Sif. And I…. she…. if…."

"Thor, the gift of oration is something you have yet to receive. Take another breath and tell me plainly what you have been attempting to for four weeks now."

Thor cringed and blushed, but when he lifted his gaze from the ground to meet his brother's eyes, his next words rang clear and strong through the room.

"Loki, this I so swear by Yddragsil itself, if you wound her in any way I will run you through with the horns of that monstrosity you deem a helmet."

"Then you will have fierce competition brother, for Heimdell has threatened to strangle me with my own, supposedly silver, tongue." He replied, his emerald eyes sparkling.

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He could have left her as soon as her breathing slowed and she drifted into a peaceful slumber. Swift like a shadow he could have transported himself back to his room, after disentangling himself from her long limbs and satin sheets. But he didn't. He chose to stay and watch the ever battle-ready goddess of war sleeping silently beside him. She had curled into his side, an arm flung carelessly across his stomach. Her breath was warm in his neck and her hair was in beautiful dark disarray across his arm and shoulder.

It fascinates him to see the warrior so relaxed, yet so defenceless. And he suddenly feels honoured that she had trusted him enough to let go so completely; that she felt safe in the god of mischief's arms.

He suspects that that ever-present spark of mischief makes him stay as well, wanting to see the chambermaid's reaction if they discovered him and to hear the Lady Sif's explanation of how the second prince of Asgard ended up in her bed. Naked.

So he stays; his fingers resting lightly on her slim wrist, counting her heartbeats until she stirs sometime in the morning and reaches for him again.

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><strong>_

Their grief was immeasurable and together with their lady and their prince they mourned long for the lost one. Eventually they returned to their usual routine, but it was not the same. Something was lacking.

Fandral tried but his barbs weren't as sharp and he couldn't lie to save his life. Hogan endeavoured to become the voice of reason, but even that did not last. The position had been filled completely on that faithful first adventure so many centuries ago.

Their first outing after the Bifrost's destruction almost ended badly. Recovering in the healing room they finally admitted the truth.

There had been no-one to caution them and no-one to shield them, no-one to quickly heal or unexpectedly turn the tables with a quickly muttered spell or a well-aimed knife. Too late they realised that Loki had been their silent protector.

In the end the fight was won but the blows were harder, the fight took longer and the bruises were more. And too late they gave credit where credit was due. He had been a trusted companion, despite his mischievous ways. To the three of them he had been a beloved friend.

He had also been a worthy warrior.

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Sif had been restless since morning. She had woken earlier than usual with a feeling of unease that had refused to leave her. It had remained all through breakfast until the warrior's daily training with the prince. She had barely begun fighting Fandral, the sound of her glaive clashing against his sword filling the arena, when Thor had ordered them to stop. He had calmly walked over and had dismissed her with a soft word and a knowing look. And for once she hadn't argued or complained. She had known then that her heart would not be in fighting today.

When she later found herself aimlessly wandering the Library corridor she realised the reason for her distress. And she knew tonight would be one of those nights again. A night where phantom fingers trace the contours of her body and a crisp breeze keeps time with her heartbeat. When she imagines seeing the shadows lengthen and retreat periodically and she thinks she can hear a quiet mischievous chuckle round every corner. When she ends up alone, wrapped in emerald sheets in another's bed, weeping continuously till dawn when she has to shed her sorrow and become the warrior goddess again.

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Like most of the Asgardian gods, Sif has many titles. Some were given, some were earned and one is a treasured secret very few know.

To her mother she will always be "child" no matter how many centuries have passed since her birth. Heimdall rarely calls her sister, instead preferring his own endearment of "little one". The mortals will forever worship her as the Goddess of War, but she is also known as the Lady of Victory in some remote places of Midgard. They call her the maiden-warrior amongst the Vanir and even amongst some of the Aiser, a name she is not particularly fond of. To her king and queen she is the ever faithful Lady Sif, though Frigga also called her "daughter" once with a twinkle in her eye. To Thor and their friends she is and will always be simply friend, simply Sif. Even if on occasion a frustrated cry of "woman" may slip past Fandral or Volstagg's lips.

But tonight as she reflects on her many titles, Sif realises she cares for none of them, save one.

And she longs to hear Loki moan "Sigyn" in her ear as they make love on his green sheets.

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She remembers one of the last nights he had dined with them.

It had been before the announcement of the coronation, before everything had shattered to pieces. He had been care-free and playful that night; eyes sparkling and fingers restless with magic. It had come to no surprise to everyone when halfway through the evening Loki suggested a game, to which Fandral had groaned, Hogan had sat up straighter and a wicked grin had spread across Thor's face, the likes of which to rival his brothers. Naturally mead had been involved.

The night had ended with Fandral and Hogan cuddling Volstagg on the couch and their fearless leader snoring on the table. And she had been seated on the ground, her back pressed against one of Volstagg's massive legs, running her fingers through Loki's black hair as he smirked back at her. He had made himself comfortably on the floor, head resting in her lap and his long limbs stretched towards the fire.

"You know changing your mead to water actually counts as cheating" she had reprimanded him.

"And yet my brother falls for it every time and Milady encourages it" he had replied while raising his lips towards hers.

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While Natasha clutches her glass in one hand and her head in the other, Sif turns her gaze towards the dance floor.

She spots them easily enough. As she watches Pepper, Darcy and Jane giggling, dancing and letting go, she feels herself relax as well. Until a pair of vivid-green eyes meets her own. In the middle of the crowd, towering over his petite partner he sways them expertly to the music, moving gracefully. His hands hold onto the blonde's hips, but his eyes hold onto _her_ and she knows by his smirk that he's daring her to do something, to come closer. So she slams down her drink, strides onto the floor and into the throng of undulating bodies. She doesn't know what Loki whispers into the woman's ear but as his hands leave her hips, she pulls herself from him and dances off.

"No tricks, no motives Milady Sif," he whispers.

And because she recognises the longing in his eyes and she's slightly intoxicated she lets him take her hand as he leads the way deeper into the crowd. And she allows herself to get lost in the rhythm, the memories and his arms if only for tonight.

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A couple of months back, Sif had almost given up hope. That changed after the Avenger's last brutal clash with the Skrulls. Ironman had taken quite a beating in the battle and for a moment they had thought that they had lost Thor. Pepper had handled the news of Tony's injuries reasonably well, probably used to almost everything working for the playboy genius. Only the slight tremble of her hands, as Director Fury led her to the infirmary, had betrayed her.

Jane and Darcy were another matter. They were beside themselves with worry over Thor, stalking up and down outside the emergency room and refusing anyone's suggestions of rest. And Sif with all her superior strength and knowledge felt utterly useless. In the end she was stuck holding the two women in her arms as the mortal healers and Bruce fought for the god's life till the early hours of the next morning. It was the longest night of her existence.

When Thor finally woke it was with a cry of his brother's name on his lips and Sif knew then that it hadn't been the mortals that had driven the poison from Thor's body. And her hope was rekindled.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N Finally an update, even it is only a little one. I decided on 150 this time, trying to convey more with fewer words. It was... a challenge haha. But I'm pleasantly surprised (and sometimes slightly worried) at what's been coming out of my brain. Hopefully I will be adding more drabbles soon.**

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><p>There had always been whispers surrounding him.<p>

_"Loki."_

_"A strange name for a strange boy."_

_"A quiet child."_

_"A loving child," _the nursemaid told.

Whispers grew, as boy turned man.

_"A gifted sorcerer,"_ the scholars proclaimed.

_"The more handsome prince,"_ the maids giggled.

_"An insufferable, mischief-maker,"_ the elderly complained.

_"A troubled youth_," the wise rectified.

Asgard's first war since the frostgaints loomed nearer and still whispers grew.

_"Wants to join the front lines with his brother and his father."_

_"Threatened with the pain of banishment for wanting to." _

_"Tricked his way in anyway."_

_"Utterly useless in battle,"_ the men sneered.

_"A disgrace to the house of Odin," _the men drunkenly laughed.

War broke out and the injured were sent home.

New whispers followed.

_"Encouraging words softly spoken to men in the dead of night when no sleep could be found."_

_"Three enemy soldiers killed with one flick of a wrist."_

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Once he had been mischief, born of an intelligent, idle mind.

_She_ had always been the one who instinctively knew whenever he was up to something. Her knowing smirk and slight wink whenever Fandral complained about his luck, whilst explaining how his date had gone very wrong. She knew that luck had nothing to do with it.

Her subtle snigger and her not so subtle kick to his shin under the table, as Volstagg tried to shake the cockroaches from his beard.

The pull on the hair at the nape of his neck, whenever Thor suddenly stumbled on his way up the throne before the whole of Asgard.

Sif had always known. And when he had sometimes pushed the boundaries too far, she was there to pull him right back.

But with his fall he had broken the rules.

And now without _her_ and their boundaries, he was simply chaos.

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Somewhere a shadow schemed.

The dream was the same.

Between sleep and slumber she sensed them.

Small, silver serpents slithering over the silk, over her, seemingly multiplying till they drowned out the scarlet of her bed.

As she tried to stealthily slip away, they started coiling themselves around her limbs.

Angrily hissing and bearing their fangs, they glared at her with their green eyes until she woke Stark tower with her screams.

Sif stopped believing in coincidences a long time ago.

Somewhere a shadow smirked.

The dream changed.

She felt the first snake encircled her ankle and so she waited, breath held. The second glided across her stomach and she let out a soft sigh into her pillow as sleep took her.

She did not stir once that night and the serpents slithered sensually over and around her as she slept on her new _emerald_ sheets.

Softly a shadow smiled.

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He came to her at midnight after the last battle, bruised in all possible ways. The blue of his skin let him blend in effortlessly with the tall shadows of Stark's living room while he watched her.

She had fallen asleep next to the fire, curled up beneath a blanket on the couch. He stood, watching for a while as she slumbered peacefully when suddenly as if sensing his magic, she awoke with a start.

He had expected her to run. And she did, but not in the direction he imagined. Her arms wound themselves around his waist and her head fell to his chest before his next breath. And even when he let his eye bled scarlet in an effort to shun her, she could only cling to him tighter.

So he let her draw him out of the shadows and the frost began to fade from his hands.


End file.
